


A Taste of Loneliness

by riviere (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Depression, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/riviere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He’s just been dreaming. Clinging onto the shred of hope that maybe she is meant to be with him all along, that he won’t be one of <i>those</i> people who don’t have a partner in a society where it’s an essential.<br/>But in this moment, when he looks into her forlorn face that hasn’t aged one single day since they’ve moved in together and sees only despair, he knows he’s wrong."</p><p>Dean/Cas soulmate AU, based on the idea that you stop aging when you reach 18, and only start again when you meet your soulmate, so you can grow old together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Taste of Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> this ficlet has an underlying theme of moderate depression. it's never explicitly stated, but definitely implied, so please just be careful if that might pose as a trigger!
> 
> unbeta'd, all mistakes are mine.

It's on a rainy night, the gray clouds covering up the stars, that the man who will end up the love of Dean's life finally catches him in his arms.

Dean's standing at the window, eyes tracking the fall of the raindrops- the not quite gentle patter of water as they splash against the cracked sidewalk outside the house. He sighs, pressing his palms to the windowsill, head bowed. Out of place- that's how he feels, standing in her house, feet sinking into the white carpet.

His thoughts swallow him, tugging and pulling at the threads of his heart. The visits of his insomnia are becoming more frequent, making him restless as he lies in _her_ bed, in _her_ room, with _her_ arms resting against his chest.

(He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong with her. It's engraved in his heart, in the sinking feeling of his stomach, in the tense atmosphere hanging in the air.)

"Dean?"

He frowns when Lisa says his name from somewhere behind him, her voice uncharacteristically flat. Turning, he sees her leaning against the counter, nightdress blowing softly around her thighs as the fan moves the staticky air through the room. Her eyes shine under the yellow light filtering in from the living room, and she's biting her lower lip.

Dean straightens, swallowing. Nervous, he can hear his heart pounding in his ears as he walks into the room, the soft thud of his feet on the floor resonating through the small kitchen. The chirps of crickets outside, hidden in the trees, meet his ears, with the hum of the fan and Lisa's tense exhales.

"Hey, Lis," he says. "What's...what's up?"

His voice is feeble. He knows what's wrong; he's always known, he thinks bitterly to himself. The emptiness he's felt these past few months, the missing skip of his heart he's always heard about when people describe falling in love, none of it is there. Never has been, maybe, even in the early days, before they moved in together.

(He's just been dreaming. Clinging onto the shred of hope that maybe she is meant to be with him all along, that he won't be one of those people who don't have a partner in a society where it's an essential.)

But in this moment, when he looks into her forlorn face that hasn't aged one single day since they've moved in together and sees only despair, he knows he's wrong.

They part ways that night, Lisa rubbing his back as he clings to her shirt, burying his head in the crook of her neck. Because he loves her, he loves her so goddamn much, but he isn't _in_ love with her.

And it makes a world of difference.

***

Later, much later, he ends up standing on a set of familiar steps, his knuckles white as he grips his single duffel bag by its worn handle, and his head bowed, rain dripping off his hair and into his eyes. The salty taste of his tears mixes with the cold, metallic-tasting drops falling from the sky, and he can barely breathe.

The door swings open- which is funny, because he can't remember knocking- and a pair of familiar blue eyes are there, wide as they take in his disheveled appearance.

"Cas," Dean chokes out, and then he's collapsing, tripping over the threshold and into the safety of a strong, familiar embrace.

Cas catches him, staggering under the weight in his arms. He moves them in, pulls Dean out of the rain as he mutters, "It's okay, Dean. It's okay. I've got you."

He has him. He has him. The words repeat over and over in Dean's mind, become his mantra, and he takes a moment to just breathe.

He has him.

***

(Dean's never fallen in love.

He wants to, though, or at least he thinks he does. He's not quite sure if that's his desire and his alone, or the wants and needs and demands of the world around him.

He's had relationships, of course. There was Cassie, and there is- was- Lisa; but they fell in love with him and he didn't reciprocate those feelings, and was forced him to run away, to leave, to be the liar, the pretender he is.

But his time is running out, the clock is ticking in his ears, and he can't pretend anymore.)

***

Unsurprisingly, it's easy to fall into a routine together. Cas makes two cups of black coffee each morning and holds the second mug out to Dean as he sips from his own. He'll turn on the radio, letting the familiar chords of Zeppelin wash over them, pushing through the wall between them and pulling them closer.

(Dean doesn't understand why Cas isn't pushing him away like everyone else had, but he isn't objecting.)

Cas will smile at Dean, but a lot of the time, Dean can only cast his eyes away in answer. Because god, he's not even heartbroken. He's just...empty. It's a feeling he's always had, ever since his mother had died, ever since he first understood the reality of his society; but with Lisa, at least it became bearable. Tucking her in his arms at night, curled up on the warm sheets- they didn't fit perfectly, but she would dull the pain.

He tries to spell it out to Cas. He was never good with words or feelings, though, and he just can't push the words from his mouth, he can't get them to spill off his tongue without them bringing along a torrent of insecurities and breathless breakdowns.

Thankfully, Cas seems to get it- one morning, as Dean leans his head on the cold, granite countertop, fingers tinged red as he clutches his coffee cup, Castiel runs his knuckles between Dean's shoulder blades and murmurs, "I know, Dean."

He doesn't. But the words and the gentle touch relieve some of the tension in Dean's shoulder, and his posture slips a little, relaxing into the feeling.

***

Dean remembers their first night together, clear as day, still bright in his mind. He remembers waking to an aching feeling, shifting restlessly in Cas's bed, rolling over onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. He remembers the burning pang behind his eyes and his throat closing up.

He didn't like sleeping alone. The sheets beside him were too cold, too empty, like black eyes boring into his soul. _(This is what's meant to be. You, just you. Alone.)_

Padding out into the hallway in sock-clad feet, the dull light of the bathroom carving a pathway for him across the wooden floor, he didn't stop until he got to the couch where Cas was sleeping. His chest was rising and falling, his hair matted against the pillow, and Dean found the scene brought him a sort of serenity, making its way right to his too-big heart.

"Cas," Dean whispered hoarsely. He leaned in and nudged his friend gently. "Cas, wake up."

"Dean?" Blue eyes blinked up at him, glazed over and tinged pink from sleep.

"Will you..." Not for the first time, words failed him. Voice low, he tried again, "I mean, can you..."

He sighed, dropping his head into his hands and focusing on his breathing, in and out, feeling his lungs expand painfully in his chest.

He didn't look up until he felt a warm hand hook itself under his chin, little finger trailing at the hollow of his throat, and Cas said, "Yes, Dean."

Maybe that's why he needs Cas so much, Dean thought blearily, surprised. Cas understands. He can let words go unsaid, the undercurrent of implications run through their veins and twist up around the minds, he can take one look at Dean and understand.

They didn't touch as they lay down together that night, didn't let their skin brush, just sank into each other's presence, Dean replacing the warmth of Cas's breath in their air between them with his own.

(Dean never sleeps alone after that.)

***

"You should call your brother," Cas tells him one morning, as they sit together on the edge of Cas's bed. The room is no longer cold, but goosebumps form on Dean's skin at the suggestion, making their way up his arms and down his thighs. He rubs at them self-consciously.

"I don't know what I'd say," is what he settles on eventually, and Castiel tilts his head.

"The truth?"

Dean can't do that, though. Because Sam- Sam has his life together. He's got a beautiful girl and a great school; and Dean's living with his best friend, a bag of clothes and the keys to the Impala his only concrete possessions, and he doesn't want his brother to see that. He doesn't want his brother to realize he's falling apart at the seams, the beat of society's expectations echoing in his ears.

(They haven't spoken in months. Sam doesn't need him anymore.)

He doesn't realize he's crying until he feels Castiel's strong arms wrap him up in his embrace, his dark hair tickling his nose. He embraces him tightly, not turning away in disgust even as snot drips from Dean's nose, onto his shirt.

"I'm here for you, Dean," he says quietly. Dean nods into his collarbone.

Cas is what he has.

(Cas is what he needs.)

***

He stays with Castiel for a long time. He was concerned, at first, that he was imposing, but Cas told him he wasn't.

"I want you here," Cas said, looking up into Dean's mossy green eyes from where they were lying next to each other on the bed. "It gets quiet, living by myself. Lonely." He added the last word quietly, just a breath of air, almost like an afterthought.

Dean just nodded. Loneliness was something he was well-acquainted with, he thought wryly.

Needless to say, he stayed. One week stretched into one month, stretched into half a year, and eventually- with the undulating support of his best friend- Dean found himself back on his feet, with a job as a bartender and waiter, paying for half the rent and groceries, buying himself new clothes and a new _life._

And every time Cas smiled at him when Dean got home from his shift, Dean felt something stir in his stomach, something strange and unfamiliar and-

-good.

***

(They met during a snowstorm. Cas had been locked out of his apartment building, and was shivering, rubbing his arms through his beige trench coat. Specks of white snow embellished his dark hair, and the light of the silver lamp hanging from the side of the building illuminated his bright eyes.

Dean had pulled up in the Impala and picked the lock for him without hesitating. They've been best friends ever since.)

***

Sometime later- not the next day, not the next week, not the next month, but just later- Dean's looking in the mirror, and he sees a line by his eye.

Upon closer inspection, he releases it's a wrinkle. A laugh line. It spirals out from the corner of his eye and is barely even visible, but-

Wrinkles only come with age, and-

Age only comes with a perfect match-

He ends up leaning against the countertop, trying to balance himself as his head spins. It takes a few methodical breaths until he can face himself in the mirror again. His heart is beating, hard, and it feels as though it'll burst right out of his ribcage, pierce through his skin.

The strange stirring sensation in his stomach starts up again, and he thinks he's going to throw up, but then he realizes it's something else.

Is he in love?

(Is Cas?)

***

In the end, he tries to ignore it, just like he ignores almost everything that poses as a problem. Except, no, this isn't a problem, necessarily, it's just- it could create the problem. It could be the catalyst for the problem.

Like, what if Castiel doesn't love him?

Not that he has to- platonic or romantic, they'll still both age together. They're still soulmates.

God. The word sends a shiver down his spine, makes his fingers curl in, his nails digging into the fleshy part of his palm.

(He never thought he'd find his soulmate. He doesn't know if he's terrified or relieved. Maybe both.)

It doesn't seem fair to Cas, though- Cas, with his big blue eyes, his perfect smile, his big heart and nebulas flowing in his veins. The only person who's ever given him a second chance, the only person who believes in him.

(Cas, one of the only people he believes in.)

Cas deserves to know, if he hasn't figured it out already. This isn't Dean's and Dean's alone- it takes two halves to make a whole.

He takes a deep breath, exhales shakily, and turns away from the mirror.

***

After that, though, there's a tension hanging in the air between, so thick Dean's sure he can feel is resting on his shoulders. He finds it hard to look at Cas- to see the inevitable lines around his chapped, pink-dusted lips- but the distance hurts even more.

(Cas is a drug, and Dean's hooked on him. Pulling away would surely result in a painful death.)

***

Their fingers brush during dinner as they both reach for the same slice of pizza, and Dean jerks his hand away like he's just touched an open flame. And then the next thing he registers is a, "Dammit, Dean!" and a hand hitting the table, rattling the open box.

Dean looks up in surprise, the melting mozzarella slipping between his fingers, onto the paper plate in front of him.

"What?" he asks. His voice is a bit curt, a bit defensive, but who can blame him?

(He's not scared. He's not scared. Don't say he's scared.)

Cas sighs, leaning back in his chair and fixing Dean with a hard stare that seems to look right through his eyes, into his soul. "You've been acting strange all week. You can't even look me in the eye," he says, his voice dropping to something softer, laden with hurt. Dean immediately reels back, blinking; but then his throat tightens in irritation. He can feel his walls going up, locking him and his emotions inside his mind.

"Shit, Cas," he says, trying to act calm and cool but it's just not working, "things are just...they're really fucked up, right now," he laughs hollowly.

Cas narrows his eyes.

"And that gives you reason to ignore me?" he demands. "I thought-"

"What? You thought what, Cas?" Dean's standing now, his chair screeching against the tile floor as it topples backward, clattering to the ground. "You thought because you took me in- as any other decent human being would've done, y'know- that, what, that I owe you something? Huh?" He's being an asshole now, no excuses, he knows it- can see it in the pools of shock in Cas's eyes, the red-hot anger simmering below his skin.

"No," Castiel says quietly, his gaze fixated on Dean, boring through him, "I thought you'd at least care a little more because we're soulmates."

Silence. Dean gapes at him like an idiot, jaw twitching and lips dry. He can feel his heart slamming against his ribcage, can hear the too-fast thud thud thud of it in his ears.

"What?" he gasps.

Castiel's piercing gaze becomes less so, and he tilts his head. "You didn't know?" There's no trace of stubborn hardness in his voice anymore, just surprise mixing with pity.

(The latter, Dean thinks to himself, is far worse.)

"I did," he says hoarsely. "I knew." He swallows and looks down.

"Then why do you insist on shutting me out?" Castiel's voice is soft now. Like he's speaking to a child.

Dean shakes his head. "Dunno," he says hopelessly. "I just-" deep breath, "I want to- to fall in love. I want it, okay, Cas? Because one day, you, and Sam, and Jo and all our friends, one day you'll all be married and making families and growing old together and I don't want to be left behind. I can't- I couldn't just watch as you-"

He doesn't get to finish, to quell the sudden torrent of emotions and insecurities ripping through his body, because then Cas is there, thumbs brushing away the unwanted tears, grazing lightly over his cheekbones. Dean leans into the touch, suddenly exhausted, drained. The love- because it's love, Dean's sure, he can feel it through Castiel's fingertips- travels down his neck, circling at the hollow of his throat before finally making its way into his heart and resting there.

"Dean," Cas says, and forces Dean to meet those blue eyes, "I will never leave you behind."

Dean shakes his head. Fuck his dignity, it's all gone at this point, anyway.

"I'm afraid," he finally admits- finally pushes the words out, the ones he's been attempting to say for weeks. "I don't know what will happen if I let myself love you."

He can feel Cas inhale deeply; and then he presses his lips to Dean's forehead, letting his fingers ghost across his lips.

"Don't be," Castiel breathes. His lips travel down, until they're pressed against Dean's jaw. He's not kissing him, not really, just breathing, and it's more intimate than anything Dean's ever experienced.

(Dean has never experienced true intimacy, he realizes belatedly. He's a cliché, a broken bird, a kid with daddy issues to boot. He's touch-starved.)

"Don't be afraid."

Dean breathes out a sigh, eyes opening to find Cas just centimeters away. So close Dean can almost taste the waves of emotion rolling off him, can see entire galaxies formulating and exploding and dissipating in Castiel's blue eyes.

They stay like that for the rest of the night, caught up in their embrace, fight long forgotten. At some point, Castiel kisses him- soft and chaste, and it's over far too soon, but it's more than Dean could have ever asked for.

He can't say the three words, though he wants to.

(But he doesn't need to. Castiel knows.)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! kudos and comments make my day :)


End file.
